


The Tale of the Christmas Moose

by Ovipositivity



Series: Folk [11]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Elf Culture & Customs, Elf Sex, F/M, Large Cock, Minotaur - Freeform, Ogres, Prostitution, Rough Sex, Roughhousing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28461453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ovipositivity/pseuds/Ovipositivity
Summary: A stranger arrives at the House of the Dahlia, the city's first "for Folk, by Folk" brothel. And you can't turn away a needy stranger at Christmastime.
Series: Folk [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1218198
Kudos: 15





	The Tale of the Christmas Moose

The House of the Dahlia is a special place. I’ve worked there for four years now, and before that I danced at a couple of other places you might have heard of, but once I went to escorting full time I knew there was only one place I wanted to work. Sireen treats us well enough—I actually have a dental plan for the first time in my adult life—and my room’s real cozy, but the real reason is simple:

No humans allowed.

Ok, not _none_. Sireen has a strictly vetted favorites list that never has more than a dozen names on it, and most of them are guests she knows from back when _she_ was working. They’re sweet guys, a bit on the older side, mostly quiet. No trouble. But aside from them, the House is strictly for Folk, by Folk.

That’s what human women don’t understand. I tried to explain it to a friend of mine back when I was dancing. I escorted a little on the side (who hasn’t?) and so did Sara, and we used to do in-calls together, and she never understood why it bothered me so much.

“I get asked to role-play too,” she said. “Domme them up. It’s not that big a deal, is it?”

“It’s not role-play that bothers me,” I told her as I laced up my boots. “It’s feeling like a trophy. Some guy’s first knife-ear.” She winced at the slur.

“I can play innocent, sure. I do it at the club. But pretending to be some princess from the Fair Realm who’s never seen a _big, strong_ human cock before… it feels like I’m, I dunno, betraying my people. Is that weird?”

She shrugged. “Nah, guess not,” she said, which was code for _yeah, but you’re my friend, so I don’t wanna make a big deal about it_. I didn’t blame her or anything, I wasn’t mad. She just didn’t get it.

The House is different. You can let your hair down. You know that guys are just coming to party, to have a good time, and to get their rocks off. You don’t have to deal with the stares.

You pick up some great stories, too. Folk are more relaxed when they know there aren’t any humans around. A lot of guys like to tell me about their day. That’s fine, I don’t judge. Sometimes they ask about mine, and sometimes they even seem to care. There’s solidarity. One of my guests does IT at a big corporation downtown and he’s helping me set up my room for camming.

I think the best story I’ve got, though, happened about a year and a half ago. We still bring it up sometimes, especially if it’s late and a slow night and people are a little liquored up. You have to keep this to yourself, understand? This is _our_ story. It belongs to the House.

Picture this: it’s December, about a week ‘til Christmas. The House is decorated, as it always is. Mistletoe all over the place, fire in the fireplace—Sireen really loves that old-fashioned ambience. It’s a slow night, since a lot of people are traveling home or spending the evening with their families. We have a sad little tree up in one corner with a pile of presents underneath it. Sireen always gets us a few nice things, but almost all the girls have regular guests who show a little holiday generosity. So even though it’s quiet, nobody’s in a bad mood.

The doorbell chimes. Sireen’s sitting at the front desk and she bends down to squint into the security monitor. The House isn’t somewhere you can just walk into—we’re on the fourth through sixth floors of our building, and the lobby has a security guard. Only people with the code can even ring our bell, and there are pretty strict rules about handing out the code. Rules that aren’t always followed, of course. Sireen looks a little surprised at whatever she sees, and more than a little cranky, but she hits the pager button.

“Look alive, girls,” she says. Her gills flutter and she reaches up to smooth her hair. It’s a wig, of course, a preposterously huge one. “We have a visitor.”

I’ve been lounging on a chair reading Simon Tenpenny’s new book. I love detective novels, even the trashy ones. I fold down a corner of my page and stick the book in the couch cushions for later. Usually, visitors arrange ahead with a girl—sometimes, though, they don’t pick until they get here. What the hell, right? My evening’s free. Might as well make some money. Sireen’s got a weird expression on her face, though, halfway between a smirk and a frown. It’s hard to read icthys facial expressions.

I’m wearing a red satin bustier and a pair of gauzy harem pants that are just on the right side of see-through. Not just sexy, but comfortable like you wouldn’t believe. They’re like big pajamas. So I sashay over to the wall and lean against it, checking my makeup in the mirror. Looks good. I make sure there’s a sprig of mistletoe a few feet above my head. A few of the other girls draw closer, too, all of them angling to get a look at the door.

We hear the footsteps first. _Nock, nock_. We’re used to guests with hooves, but this guy sounds a bit larger than the average client. _Nock, nock_. Slow, ponderous, heavy steps, not the light _tap-tap_ of a satyr. I have a moment to wonder what’s going on, and then the door opens, and our guest steps in. I’m closest to the door, so I get the first glimpse of him. I look him up and down… and up, and up, and up.

He’s a minotaur. An honest-to-Sylveth mino, eight feet tall if he’s an inch, his thick brown fur matted here and there with half-melted snow. His rack of antlers is more moose than cow, a huge flaring crown that adds another three feet to his height. He has to bend nearly double to get in through the door. Fortunately, the common room is two stories tall, but his horns reach up almost to the balcony at the second floor. He’s wearing a brown leather delivery driver’s uniform and a long brown robe that covers him from shoulder to knee.

All the air goes out of the room at once. Sireen, professional that she is, sidles up to him. “Welcome, sir, to the House of the Dahlia,” she says. “May I take your coat?”

He huffs like a bull and shrugs it off. The weight of it nearly crushes her—it’s bigger than a car tarp. I rush over to help her with it, and together we managed to bundle it into the closet.

Our moose is just standing there, dripping snowmelt onto the carpet. His hooves are the size of dinner plates, his thighs are each thicker around than my torso. Of course my eyes are drawn to his package, and I swallow hard. Those uniform pants must be the largest size they had, and they still barely fit our guest. I can see every crease and line of his body underneath. His bulge is silhouetted under his clothes, and one look tells me that I’m going to have to let someone else take care of this one. That thing’s easily the length of my arm.

Sireen notices it too. “Er, sir,” she begins, only slightly off her saleswoman rhythm, “may I offer you a refreshment?”

“Don’t drink,” the minotaur says. His voice is low and gravelly but perfectly distinct. He’s got a really thick accent, and for a moment I wonder where he’s from. They say there are still some wild clans in the mountains upstate.

“Something to smoke, then?” Sireen’s getting a little more comfortable with her patter. “To take the edge off the cold?”

“Don’t smoke,” he rumbles. “Looking for a girl. I called ahead.”

“You did?” Sireen asks. Her voice is cheerful, but she stares daggers are Niobe. The lamia girl shrinks away. She was on the phones earlier, and Sireen’s face makes it clear that she didn’t mention _anything_ about this.

“Yuss.” The minotaur stamps his hooves, dislodging another minor avalanche from his upper reaches. “Is there problem?”

“No, no problem,” Sireen says. “No problem at all. You’re just… well, sir, you’re rather large, and we are a petite group here, as you can see.”

“Oh.” His face falls. For a moment, I feel terribly sorry for him. His eyes are huge and brown and full of loneliness. I think about how few minotaurs I see in the city, and what people say about them. I think about what it must be like to have to crouch down everywhere you go. It doesn’t surprise me that most minos stay in the hills.

Sireen feels it, too. I can see the gears in her head turning. She brightens up. “Don’t you worry, though, sir,” she says, extending one arm and wrapping it around his waist—about the highest she can reach. “I think we can take care of you. If you’ll just come this way?” She leads him into the center of the room. His antlers catch some of the tinsel she’s hung and tear it off the wall. It drapes over them, and for a moment I’m forcibly reminded of Santa’s reindeer.

“I’m afraid I don’t have a chair suitable for you,” Sireen says. “But if you’ll just wait here a moment…”

She turns and bustles off. The minotaur stands awkwardly in the center of the room, looking around. It’s very quiet here except for the crackling of the fire. There’s about a half-dozen girls in here, and they’re all staring at him. I make myself look away, even though he’s fascinating. I know what it’s like to be stared at.

Sireen is back in less than five minutes, and she’s not alone.

The House of the Dahlia has plenty of elves and halfsies, a couple of lamia, some satyrs, a pixie, even an orc (Jokla’s one of the busiest girls here, oddly enough). But we’re also the only place in town with an ogre on staff. Dhurga’s actually a bouncer, not an escort, but Sireen always claims she hired her “for really big jobs.” We all get a bit of a laugh out of that one, especially when Dhurga shows up for work in ogre-sized lingerie. To be honest, I feel bad for laughing. She’s not a bad sort, for an ogre, but even by their standards she’s not that bright. Ok, so she’s about as dumb as a box of pinecones, but she’s a sweetheart. And she doesn’t tolerate guests getting rough with us. I’ve personally seen her throw a satyr like a shotput, five meters at least. And he _bounced_.

So here’s Dhurga, seven feet tall and four hundred pounds of corded muscle. Nobody would ever mistake her for a large human—she’s got a thick Neanderthal shelf of brow and tusks like a wild boar’s. Her black hair is long, though, surprisingly smooth and straight and clean. It’s bound up in two long plaits like a milkmaid. She’s wearing regular working clothes now, jeans and a leather jacket, but Sireen has evidently put some makeup on her—her cheeks are rouged, her eyes lined in pencil, her lips cherry-red. Christmas red.

She gives the mino an appraising look, and he does the same to her. “This the guy?” she asks, as if it could possibly be anyone else.

Sireen nods. She looks like she’s having a really hard time not cracking up. “Here you are, sir,” she says. “Our lovely Dhurga. Would you like a room to yourselves?”

The mino is silent for a long time, but he finally nods. I’m feeling a little bad for Dhurga at this point, but she seems happy enough. Sireen is trying to lead them into one of the guest suites, but Dhurga loops her arm around the mino’s—God, he even makes her look slim—and starts pulling him across the floor.

“We go to my room,” she says, and that’s that. Dhurga’s room is tucked in the corner, next to the fire escape. Not the most romantic setting, but at least the ceiling is high. She drags our guest in there and we here the bolt click.

It’s a slow night, and we’re a curious bunch, so we all cluster around that side of the room. The tension in the air is so thick you could cut it. Even Sireen is getting in on it. There are a few nervous giggles from our side of the door, and from the other side, silence. For about ten minutes.

The first sound we hear is a bellow like a wounded animal. None of us can tell if it’s Dhurga or the guest—could go either way. After that, though, things really start to get crazy. There’s banging, and crashing, and roaring. A series of heavy thumps that shake the decorations hanging from the walls. The sound of wood cracking. Is that the clang of metal on metal? We’re all standing there, paralyzed, afraid to approach a door that’s shaking in its frame. Both of them are howling now, his voice deep and resonant, hers ululating like a yodeler. Is that pain or triumph or both? The sounds build to a crescendo after about twenty minutes, and just like that, they fall silent.

Dead silent. I can hear my heart thumping in my chest. We’re all waiting around for another five minutes or so, but none of us can hear a word. It’s completely, eerily quiet. Even the fire seems to have hushed up.

Sireen turns to us and puts her hands on her hips. “We need to go and check on her,” she says, in that tone where “we” means “you lot.” There’s a lot of fingerpointing and “who, me?” faces, but in the end, Sireen settles on me.

“Just take a peek inside, ok?” she says. “Just to make sure they’re… you know…”

“Alive?” I asked. “Why me?”

“Because I trust you not to do anything stupid,” Sireen says in a low voice. She’s right, I have to admit it. I do tend to keep a level head in emergencies. Good trait to have in this business.

“Fine,” I mutter, and tiptoe over to the door. It’s slightly but noticeably askance in its frame. Behind me, Niobe and Brilla the icythys are staring over my shoulder, keeping a safe distance away. I knock on the door, gently as I can, but there’s no response. I wait about thirty seconds, then try the knob.

It turns, all right, but the second I push the door in it falls completely off its hinges. I barely let go of the knob in time. The door lands on the ground with an almighty crash and for the first time I get a look at Dhurga’s bedroom.

It’s pretty spartan, at least compared to my own. There’s a bed, a heavily reinforced king-size, and a bureau against one wall. A side table holds a lamp, and there’s a low end table against the far wall that, I suppose, holds pictures or bric-a-brac or whatever Dhurga might want.

At least, that’s how it’s supposed to look. Every single piece of furniture has been smashed to splinters. Clothes, both ogre-sized lingerie and regular work clothes, are scattered across the floor. Most of them are torn. There’s broken glass in the corners—the lamp has been bent in half, the bulb shattered, and whatever pictures Dhurga had hanging up or set on her end tables have been smashed as well. There are dozens of holes punched in the drywall, some at ceiling height. Most of them are obviously antler-shaped, but a couple of them look like feet or fists. The bed has collapsed, though its sturdy construction means it hasn’t totally broken apart—it’s just sitting slumped on the floor with a deep ravine in its center. And lying in that ravine is Dhurga.

Her eyes are closed, but her chest is rising and falling, so we know she’s still alive at least. She’s splayed out, naked as the day she was born, with huge bruises all up and down both sides and all over her watermelon-sized tits. Her pussy is _gaping_ open, lips drooping to either side—it looks like I could fit my foot in there without difficulty. Oozing out of it is the most prodigious creampie I’ve ever seen in my life. A river—no, a _waterfall_ of cum cascades down the canyon she’s carved in the bed, slopping across her knees and pooling on the floor. She’s practically floating in it. More cum bastes her stomach, her chest, and her face.

She’s wearing the most blissed-out expression I’ve ever seen. If a woman could die of pure satisfaction, she’d probably look like that.

Of the mino, there’s no sign, though the bathroom door in the far wall is closed and a light shines out from underneath it. We hear the toilet flush and collectively draw back at the sound. The bathroom doorknob turns, and I’m suddenly more terrified than I’ve ever been in my life. I’m convinced, to the marrow, that this beast has killed Dhurga and is coming for us next. I look around frantically for a weapon as he steps out of the bathroom.

He’s even more impressive naked. A mane of coarse brown hair cascades down his shoulders, but beneath that his body is smooth, sleek brown fur. I can count every pectoral muscle on his broad chest. Little tufts of hair dot his Adonis belt, sloping smoothly down towards the biggest cock I’ve ever seen. Even half-soft it reaches his knee. A few droplets of cum are still dripping from the tip. I look at the cock, and then up at him. He looks at me looking at his cock, then looks at Dhurga, then back at me. We’re frozen there for a moment.

“Stop right there!” I quaver, and I immediately regret it. I should be running! What am I going to do against a minotaur like this? Especially one who’s obviously in rut—my God, the musk rising off him is incredible. He smells like a barn in the middle of summer. He takes a step towards me, and my knees quake. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray he makes it quick, at least.

“Where you going?” Dhurga’s voice is low, sultry. I open my eyes to see the minotaur turn around. She’s rising up out of the bed with a kind of volcanic unstoppability. One thick-fingered hand grabs him by the elbow.

“We not finished yet,” Dhurga declares. She looks briefly at us, hiding in her doorway, and snorts. “You want watch?”

Part of me does, I have to admit it. Maybe from a safe distance. Behind plexiglass.

“I’ll, uh, I’ll just, uh, I’ll give you your privacy,” I stammer, and beat a hasty retreat. The mino looks eyes with me as I leave, and I swear I see desperation written on his face. _Sorry, big guy,_ I think. _Better you than me_.

The door’s a total loss, but Sireen has found a nailgun, and staples a bedsheet across her door as a privacy curtain. She gathers the rest of us close as the thumping starts up again.

“Go see a movie, girls,” she says. “I hear _Pixiewars_ is good. It’s on me.”

“Can we get popcorn?” Niobe asks. I roll my eyes. She’s a real grasper, that one.

“Why not?” smiles Sireen. “It’s Christmas.”


End file.
